Mr Monk meets Mr McDuck
by Stretch Snodgrass
Summary: Adrian Monk recieves a telegram from Scrooge McDuck. Monk and Sharona are off to Duckburg in an effort to find his money. Can the defective detective crack the case? Unusual crossover between Monk and Duck Tales. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. The telegram

**Mr. Monk meets Mr. McDuck**

Mr. Adrian Monk was measuring his books, tape in hand.

"Seven inches, 3/8 of an inch," he said to himself. "Seven inches, 5/8 of an inch."

He neatly removed the second book, and placed it to the left of the first.

He shook his head, and wiped his brow.

"Seven inches, 1/8 of an inch."

Monk was disturbed by the slamming of the door.

"Adrian!" called Sharona.

His attractive nurse/ assistant stormed into the room, carrying his mail.

She looked at Mr. Monk, and placed her hand to her hip, elbow jutted out, and gave him her glare.

"Adrian, what are you doing?"

"My books," said Monk, now down to six inches, 7/8 of an inch. "Benjy borrowed _History's Greatest Unsolved Crimes_. He messed up my order. Now I have to . . . resort them. They have to be sorted by color and arranged in descending size."

"You know, most people who do these things, do it by subject."

"I know, I used to volunteer at the university library. But I prefer it this way."

"How come you've got to measure it?"

"It has to be exact."

Sharona rolled her eyes.

"You've got way more important stuff to do," she remarked. "LOOK who's writing to you."

"It's a federal offence to rifle through people's mail," muttered Monk.

"So sue me."

Sharona tossed Monk an envelope.

He caught the envelope, and dusted it off.

His address was written in a peculiar, old-fashioned hand.

"It must be written by someone at least eighty years old," Monk remarked to an impatient Sharona. "This style of calligraphy hasn't been taught since World War I. Actually 1917 to be exact. I'm not an expert, but I'm betting the writer was born in Britain. Look how . . . ."

"He was born in Scotland," interrupted Sharona. "And he's so ancient, he was a prospector in the Klondike Gold Rush."

"Scrooge McDuck?" said Monk, reading the return address. "The richest duck in the world. Captain of industry, and keeps three cubic acres of cash in his Duckburg headquarters, an enormous, virtually impenetrable vault. Isn't he supposed to be fictional?

"Well he's not," said Sharona, throughly exasperated. "I saw him on _Lifestyles of the Filthy Rich_. You know, that show that's just like _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_."

"I don't watch much television," Monk admitted. "But I remember reading the _Uncle Scrooge_ comics . . ."

"You actually read comics?" said Sharona, shocked. "I can't believe it, you, acting like a regular kid.

"Yeah, I had a . . . swell time," said Monk, hesitantly.

The telephone rang. Sharona answered it.

_Police HQ_

"Captain Stottelmeyer. Yeah, we've got a call for Mr. Monk. Did he get some telegram? It was from Scrooge Mc Duck himself. Really urgent if the cheapskate paid for it."

"Yeah," answered Sharona. "We're just about to open it."

"Well see you do in the next half hour. I gave McDuck your number. He wants to give you a job. Sounds big. Tell Monk if he plays his cards right, he could really milk this one for all it's worth. Hate to say it, but, McDuck could even use his influence to get Monk back on the force."

"Hear that, Adrian."

"Sounds dishonest," came Monk's muffled voice from the background.

"Monk, you might even come out of this a few million dollars richer," said the Captain. "Read the letter."

The captain hung up.

Randy Disher walked in.

"Your calling Monk?" he asked. "Who got killed?"

"Noone," said the captain. "I just gave him a message from Scrooge McDuck."

"_The_ Scrooge McDuck?"

"Yeah, he gave me a collect call not half an hour ago. Heard of Monk and wants him on a case. Promised a big reward."

Disher's eyes lighted up.

"Does McDuck need police backup?"

"No Randy," said Stottlemeyer, returning to his work.

_Back at Monk's_

Sharona was watching Monk carefully open the envelope.

"Hasn't he heard of e-mail," she remarked.

"I'm just opening it," he told her. "I'm probably not going to go."

Sharona was ready for a quick retort, but Monk preempted her by reading the telegram.

"MONEY BIN ROBBED STOP WILL HIRE YOU FOR LARGE FEE STOP URGENT YOU COME TO DUCKBURG STOP SCROOGE MCDUCK STOP."

Monk and Sharona stopped, and stared at the paper.


	2. Off to Duckburg

_Doctor Kroger's office_

Monk was staring at the waterfall in the courtyard outside, at home in _his_ chair. He was counting the rocks, for the first time in nearly a month.

Dr. Kroger walked in.

"Am I late?" he asked, checking his watch.

"No, I came about an hour early," Monk admitted. "I let myself in. I was hoping you were here, I really . . . don't know what I'm going to do."

Dr. Kroger went to his files, took out his pen, and reluctantly made for _his _chair. It was going to be one of those days.

"How is Sharona? Did she quit again?"

"No, but there's this case. I didn't want to do it . . . but I was talked into it."

"Why not?" asked Kroger, looking into his files. "Your number one goal is get back on the force, you've always told me that being a detective is your way of fixing the world."

"Not the whole world," said Monk, fiddling with his fingers, "just a small piece of it."

"What's wrong with this case?"

"I'm a homicide detective. In San Francisco. I'm being sent to recover money . . . somewhere. It doesn't seem right."

"You've found everything from rocking chairs, paintings, to missing softballs. If your recovering someone's money, your still doing a good service. Is the amount small?"

"Three cubic acres," sighed Monk. "It's just strange, who keeps that much cash around anyways. Why couldn't he invest his money?"

"You mean Scrooge McDuck?" replied Dr. Kroger, eyes wide open. "If his money was stolen, this could be your ultimate case."

"Finding Trudy's murderer is my ultimate case," said Monk, uncharacteristically stern. "The most this could be is my penultimate case."

"But think of how much help you'd be to Mr. McDuck," answer Dr. Kroger. "Adrian, money is far from worthless. You know that a robber also needs to be brought to justice."

"I know," sighed Monk. "That's what Sharona said. She also told me it could mean a good deal of money, and a return to active duty. So did the captain."

"So why don't you want to do it?" said Doctor Kroger, holding out his left hand. "I don't understand."

"It's not really that. I don't want to go to Duckburg. I don't like change. Anyway, . . . I always thought the place was only in the comic books and that cartoon series in the late 1980's . . ."

"Duck Tales."

"And Scrooge McDuck is the world's richest duck. I mean, in real life, how much can a duck be worth?"

"He's richer than Bill Gates," said Dr. Kroger. "I recently watched his profile on _Lifestyles of the Filthy Rich_. Have you ever watched the program?"

"Sharona told me about it."

If you can take this step, Adrian, it would be a large step to your recovery," Dr. Kroger said, encouragingly. "Sometimes you need to make a leap of faith. Incremental steps are fine, and that's how you've been improving over the last few years. But I believe you can do this. It might be difficult at times, but if you take this case it won't only help you monetary and professionally, but psychologically as well."

"I've heard," sighed Monk. "I've already promised Mr. McDuck. I was hoping you'd say I couldn't go.

"Did Scrooge McDuck talk to you?" asked Dr. Kroger, intrigued.

"Yes, on the phone. He made a collect call. Sharona insisted I take it.

"What was he like?"

"He had a heavy Scottish accent," winced Monk, as he remembered the uncomfortable (to him) conversation. "He called me "laddie," and made these strange exclamations. "Burst me bagpipes," "Brigadoon," and "By all the heather in Scotland. He also tried to insist his personal pilot, Launchpad McQuack, fly us in."

"You've flown in a jet before," said Dr. Kroger.

"Launchpad McQuack was in the area . . . in his biplane," Monk shuddered.

"I understand."

"Mr. McDuck said I had a great deal of sense, for some reason. Sharona's going to drive me to Duckburg today."

"When are you leaving?"

"Soon, I guess," admitted Monk, looking toward the door.

Dr. Kroger followed his gaze.

Sharona was waiting outside. "Hurry up," she mouthed.

Ten, twenty minutes later they were in her old Volvo.

"Adrian, why didn't cancel the appointment!" she exclaimed. We have to get to Duckburg tonight. You can't keep a man like Mr. McDuck waiting.

She started the engine.

"Check your blind spot," advised Monk. "Not so fast."

She checked her blind spot. But she rolled her eyes, and drove (according to Monk) too fast.

If she had been looking in her rear-view mirror, (and Monk would of stopped back-seat driving) she would of seen a black sedan tailing them.


	3. At McDuck Oil

It was a few hours later. Monk had finally given up on telling Sharona to slow down, so they were on good terms again.

"I can't believe how nice the country is here," Sharona remarked, as they sped away on the two lane highway.

"Looks too _animated_ to me," said Monk.

The green foliage was unbelievably green, and the sunlight was unbelievably cheery. At least they looked somewhat realistic, and the shadows and clouds could of belonged to San Francisco, but Monk had this odd feeling that the Volvo stood out from most of the cars on the road, mainly generic models from the mid nineteen-thirties to the early twenty-naughts.

"Do you have the feeling this car doesn't fit into the landscape?"

"What? Is it supposed to."

Monk was quiet. He liked things to be even, and things seemed decidedly uneven.

"Trudy would like this," Monk thought.

He comforted himself as he remembered how Trudy liked drives down country highways, and bright days. She liked seeing healthy plants, lush vegetation. He decided to watch the scenery.

There was a large wooden sign up ahead.

"SCROOGE MCDUCK SAIS: GET A SQUARE PRICE FOR FUEL, BUY YOUR GAS AT MCDUCK OIL- ONLY TWO MILES AHEAD ON YOUR RIGHT."

Monk, had always been nervous about the prospect of running out of gasoline. (Much to the chagrin of Captain Stottlemeyer. When they were on patrol, he'd insist they fill up when the car was one quarter empty. Stottlemeyer was a three quarter empty kind of guy.) He leant over to check the fuel gage, for the first time in nearly a half hour.

"Sharona, you better pull over at that next gas station."

"Why? We still have over half a tank. And it's not too far to Duckburg."

"There's a black Buick following us," Monk observed. Dark tinted windows. License number 405 THB. He's been following us since we left Dr. Kroger's."

Sharona took a curious glance in her rear view mirror.

"How do you know he's following us?" said Sharona, interested to know Monk's methods. She knew Monk long enough to _assume_ he was right.

"I remember the license plate. The chances of two cars going to Duckburg from the vicinity of Dr. Kroger's offices is, well, less than 1/10 of a percent. You've also passed 23 cars since we left San Francisco, yet the black sedan is still following us."

Sharona quickly pulled into McDuck Oil. The black sedan sped on.

"I can't believe it," quipped Sharona. "Your wrong."

"They'll be back, they probably just missed the turnoff.

The gas station attendant came out of the office. He was a lanky youth, with dog face, nose and ears, topped off with a Duckburg Mallards ball cap.

"Fill it up," said Sharona. "Unleaded."

"Will do."

"I'd like to ask you a question," said Monk, awkwardly.

"Ask away," the youth said, .

"Are you color blind?"

"ADRIAN!" Sharona blurted out, giving Monk _the_ glare.

"I'm not color blind," said the youth, obviously confused. "What'd make you assume something like that?"

To prove his point, he identified the colors of everything in the car.

"I haven't been around here before," said Monk.

The gas station attendant shrugged his shoulders, proceeded to fill up the tank, and clean the windshields. Sharona handed him her Visa Card.

"We'd better get out of the car," Monk told her.

"Why?"

"Waiting around in a car when your being pursued isn't a good idea."

The black sedan had just drove in. To their surprise, they recognized the driver through the heavy tinting.

"Disher?" said Sharona, rolling her eyes.

Randy Disher drove up to the pumps, strolled out, asked the dog-faced youth to fill up his tank.

"Small world," Disher observed.

"You were following us," said Sharona. "And why in this Buick? I know what you drive, and my Volvo wagon beats your Pontiac Sunbird any day of the week."

"My new wheels," Disher explained.

"You don't own this car," observed Monk. "Look at the license plate. Three numbers, three letters. They haven't given out plates like these for the past ten years. All the new license plates have four letters, then three numbers. The person who owns this car, previously owned another, and just transferred the plates. It would have cost more to transfer the plates to you, than to transfer the plates from your old car.

Your windows are also tinted. You told me at the station Christmas Party, three years ago, that you'd never get your windows tinted. You wanted "the chicks," to see you driving down the "main drag."

"I didn't say it like that," Disher objected.

"There's also a stick of lipstick on your dashboard.

"Well, I had this date . . ."

"Must of been some date," observed Sharona, peering into the car. "It was bought at San Francisco Seniors Clearance."

"That, combined with the average age of the new Buick buyer, makes me 85 sure you borrowed this car, likely from a middle aged, or elderly female relative."

"I'll go further than that," grinned Sharona. "I bet it's his mother's car."

"Grandmothers, actually," said Disher quietly.

Even the gas station attendant laughed at that one.

"That still doesn't explain why your following us," observed Sharona.

"Scrooge McDuck, has personally asked me to accompany you on the case."

"What?" said Sharona, Monk, and the youth.

"Yes, he made a collect call to the station, and asked if you had left yet. He was so impressed with me, he offered me the chance to solve the case myself. Captain Stottlemeyer gave me time off, and here I am."

"Really?" said Sharona, rolling her eyes. "You probably begged Mr. McDuck to help you, and offered to work for free."

"And you couldn't find a map, so you trailed us," added Monk.

"Uh, . . . ." started Disher.

"Didn't," started Monk quietly, with Sharona and Disher stepping a few feet away from the curious gas station attendant, "you know that this case is supposed to be a secret."

"It is?"

Sharona rolled her eyes, and stepped a couple feet away from both Adrian and Disher.

"Yes, the attendant already knows," said Monk.

"You let it slip?"

"You did."

"Your secret's safe with me," said the youth, loudly.

He had been standing near them the whole time. He also had his ears perked up, listening in.

Monk and Disher were surprised.

"I've got really good hearing," he explained.

"And they were standing next to you," Sharona pointed out.

"But like I said, don't forget who I work for. I'm not telling anyone."

"Hey, can your answer a question?" Disher asked him.

"Sure, I know practically every road into Duckburg."

"Are you color blind?"

Sharona gave Disher _the _glare.

"NO!" said the youth, taking out his ball cap and scratching his head. Why do you people think I'm color blind?"

"No reason," said Disher, handing him the thirty dollars for his previously three-quarters empty tank.

Sharona and Monk got back into the Volvo. Sharona pulled out onto the highway.

"Only a couple more hours into Duckburg," she said, passing by a highway sign.

"If you go the speed limit, it'll only be two hours and forty five minutes."

"Have I ever got into an accident?" Sharona asked.

She rolled her eyes and sped on.


	4. Duckburg at Last

**At the Bin**

Duckburg was an old fashioned city. Low rise buildings, wide streets, plenty of green space. It was situated on the somewhat craggy shore of Duckburg Bay. All around the city was the too green countryside of that part of the state.

Scrooge McDuck's money bin was the tallest building in Duckburg. It was the first building Monk and Sharona saw. White building, red dome, with Scrooge's initial gleaming int eh late afternoon sun.

"And you thought it was fictional," Sharona quipped.

Monk's eyes were shut, as Sharona went through the tollbooth and drove across the Duckburg Bay bridge.

"You know," said Sharona, merrily, "When most people travel they want to see the sight."

"This is a criminal investigation."

"There's no law against having fun."

The traffic through Duckburg was relatively light. Monk and Sharona made their way quickly across the city. Disher managed to stay closely behind.

So close, that if it had been San Francisco, and Monk had been on active duty, Disher would be the first person to get a ticket for tailgating from a homicide detective.

The bin got closer, and closer. Finally they were out in the open, the Volvo struggling to get to the top of a steep hill. Sharona put on the emergency brake, as they parked in front of the mammoth steel doors.

"Imagine," said Sharona, "This was full of money. Just a handful . . . "

"And its only a part of his fortune," said Monk, seriously. "He owns banks, steamship lines, railroads, gold mines, fast food restaurants, farms and door-to-door butchers, all over the world."

"Adrian, you can do this!" Sharona told said him. "It's not going to be easy, but if you stay focused you can solve this case. Scrooge McDuck already seems to like you, you do your job, you'll be bigger than . . . Sherlock Holmes. Trudy would be very proud of you."

Monk wondered.

While he was wondering, Disher parked beside them, and got out of the car. He looked every inch a tourist.

More importantly, a short duck in top hat, blue coat, red spats, and wooden cane emerged from the bin. Scrooge McDuck himself.

"Blast me bagpipes," he remarked, greeting Sharona and Monk (Sharona handed Monk a wipe). "It's aboot time you've got here."

"We were delayed," Sharona responded, with a significant glance at Disher.

"I'm Adrian Monk," said Monk, unnecessarily. "This is my nurse Sharona."

"And assistant," she added.

McDuck was getting noticeably impatient.

"Randall Disher," said Disher, pumping Scrooge's hand. "My friends call me Randy. I called you, remember. I promised to solve the case."

"You should attend to your car, laddie"

"How's that?" said Disher, disappointed.

"It's running away from you."

Disher had forgot to put on the parking brake, and his grandmother's Buick was rolling down killmotor hill at a breakneck speed.

Disher ran after it.

Scrooge consulted his pocket watch.

"I've had troubles before," Scrooge explained. "Magica Despell and the Beagle Boys are always trying to get into me bin. But fortunately, me and my wee nephews have managed to save me money and me dime again and again. This time, I need help, and you're the best detective this side of the Atlantic."

They entered the bin. The vaulted hallway, and the checkered black and white linoleum floor glistened with a cleanliness that impressed even Monk.

He started touching the wall panels as they started from the door.

"Lassie, mind stepping away from there," Scrooge told Sharona, who was walking on a red carpet in the center of the hallway. "I'd like to show you my traps."

Sharona obliged. Scrooge removed a remote control from his coat, pressed a button. The floor slid out to reveal a tank of great white sharks.

"Pretty effective," Sharona said shakily. Adrian?"

Monk was clinging to the wall.

Scrooge pushed the button again, and the floor and carpet slid back into place.

"I think I should leave," Monk remarked. "You can give me pictures of the vault."

"Do you know how much film costs these days?" spat Scrooge. "I didn't become rich spending my money foolishly."

"Of course," said Sharona, "Adrian was just joking. Weren't you . . . ADRIAN?"

"Guess I was," said Monk.

Sharona gave him a smile, and went to help him on - still hugging the side of the corridor. She didn't blame him. She knew Scrooge wasn't going to spring his traps on them, but she didn't like walking over shark tanks either.

"Stop," ordered Scrooge, suddenly. "You must step only on the black tiles."

Sharona rolled her eyes. Apparently, Scrooge was obsessive compulsive too.

They maneuvered down the hallway, Scrooge carefully, Sharona annoyed, and Monk almost effortlessly.

"Why are we playing hopscotch?" Sharona asked, as they approached some green laser beams.

"This is why," said Scrooge, tossing a penny onto a white tile.

A steel beam slammed to the floor, and slowly withdrew back to the ceiling. The penny was now the size of a hubcap.

Sharona was frightened, but more for Monk than herself. The shark tank was bad enough, but this . . .

Monk was frozen in place, staring at the penny.

"Adrian? Adrian?"

"What do you think Mr. Monk?" remarked Scrooge.

Slowly, and laboriously, Monk turned his head.

"This is a disaster," thought Sharona. "Maybe if . . . ."

"Laddie," shouted Scrooge, "Watch out."

It was Disher, running full speed. He had recovered the Buick, gotten a ticket in the process, and was now trying to catch up with the others.

"Black tiles," Monk sputtered out.

Disher stepped on a white tile.

"CRASH! BANG! CRUSH ! CRUNCH!

Tens of metal beams came down, all over the hallway. A cloud of broken linoleum and plaster obscured the view. The crush and crunch had seemed especially ominous.

"Curse my kilts!" remarked Scrooge, horrified.

Sharona closed her eyes, not wanting to see what was left of Disher.

"Disher is alive," said Monk.

"Why, I canna believe it!" blurted Scrooge.

Disher had come to a stop on two black tiles.

"Cool," he remarked.

"I expect you to pay for the tiles you broke, you loony laddie," Scrooge answered.

He turned off the trap, and easily stepped on one of the white tiles. Monk kept to the black, just in case. And even with Sharona leading him on, he was very careful.

Scrooge had Disher walk through the light beams, setting off a loud alarm.

"Come on Adrian," said Sharona, dragging him through the spot where the lasers had shone.

They walked to the elevator without incident.

"I thought we'd walk first, before I show you ma last trap," explained Scrooge. We donno want another incident."

He pushed a button, and then tossed his hat down the hallway they had just walked through.

Giant robotic wooden mallets came out of wall, and slammed to the floor at a breakneck speed. The last one managed to collapse Scrooge's collapsible top hat. Scrooge walked to his hat, uncollapsed it, walked back to elevator, and pushed the button turning off all the money bin's traps.

McDuck didn't notice Monk's look of horror.

"I have to go back to San Francisco," Monk told Sharona. "I can't do this."

"We can't go back now," said Sharona, once again giving Monk _her_ glare. "Not until you solve the case."

They rode to the top floor, and walked into Scrooge's office. The enormous vault door took up one side of the room.

"Mr. McDuck, can we sign this first?" asked Sharona. "It's a standard contract . . ."

"Not now, Sharona," Monk complained.

Scrooge McDuck grabbed the contract, and quickly read it.

"You business banshee! You want to take four million dollars from a poor old duck!"

It took ten minutes, but Sharona and McDuck worked out a deal.

"Three and a half million, if you can find me money within four days," said Scrooge.

"Deal," said Sharona. She quickly altered the contract.

"Just like Goldie," remarked Scrooge, signing it.

He had a bitter respect for Sharona.

"But I can't work under a deadline," Monk objected.

"Sure we can," remarked Sharona. "We're looking for three cubic acres of cash. Where are they gonna hide it?"

"They would split it up, and place it in various places," speculated Monk.

"Has to be a lot of different places."

"Hey, with me on the case," remarked Disher, "Your going to find it."

Monk wasn't reassured. But he signed the contract anyways.

"Now," said Scrooge, removing his watch, "I'll show you me bin."

Expertly, he spun the combination dial and opened the vault door.


	5. Cleaned out

**Cleaned Out**

"Three days ago, I came for my daily swim in me money," sighed Mr. McDuck, climbing down a long ladder. "Blast my bagpipes! Some ruthless robber ran off with all me beautiful cash! Except, of course, my number one dime."

"But how?" asked Sharona, helping Monk, who was visibly shaken.

They were standing on a metal platform, just inside the vault door. A diving board stood in front of them, and off to the side the steel ladder descended into the depths of the bin. Usually money would be piled up with ten feet of the platform. Now, however, Monk had a startling view of a long drop to a solid concrete floor.

Brilliantly clean, spectacularly lighted, the vault was empty save for a glass case at the bottom.

"Let go of the door," Sharona whispered. "You have to go down there. This is what you do."

"I'm not climbing down that ladder," Monk objected.

"Hey, Monk, Sharona, no hands," said Disher, who was bouncing on the diving board.

He got _the glare_ from Sharona.

Disher jumped back on the platform, and began to climb down the ladder.

"Adrian," begged Sharona, "Do you want Disher to show you up? It's easy, all you have to do is hang onto the rails, and put one foot down before the other."

"Going down is _too easy_," Monk remarked.

"You went into the sewer to save my life, . . . although you could of been more careful firing that gun," Sharona remarked. "You also climbed to the top of that Ferris Wheel. Adrian, you have to go down the ladder . . . I'll help you."

Sharona knew she'd regret it.

Helping Monk meant slowly descending with him, and letting him grab her left shoe in case of vertigo. The end result was they managed to inch down slowly, making Sharona's leg sore in the process.

When they finally got down, Monk received a hands on hip, full power _look _from Sharona.

Fortunately, Disher had asked McDuck about the lucky dime. This meant that McDuck was considerably less impatient with Monk than he might of been.

"Ever since I earned me dime," Scrooge McDuck explained to Disher, "I've been inspired to seek my fortune. Since that day, my net worth has skyrocketed."

While Disher gazed at the tiny piece of silver in amazement, Monk began his investigation of the bin.

McDuck took off his top hat, and rubbed his eyes.

"What's the laddy doing?" he asked Sharona.

"This is how he does it," Sharona explained proudly. "He goes around the crime scene, does this measuring thing with his hands, and picks up the clues everyone else missed. Sometimes the case can be cold for weeks, yet he'll find the trail."

"Aye," observed McDuck, who was becoming increasingly skeptical. "If he could only find his right mind, he'd be all set."

Sharona had geared up her glare, and was about to respond (something about ducks who swim in three cubic acres of cash), when Monk stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mr. McDuck," he asked, in his usual uneasy manner.' "How often do you have this room cleaned?"

"Only once a year," McDuck explained. "I clean me money myself, but on April 2 I let me cleaning crew come in and polish the walls and ceiling."

"It's September 29, yet this room is dustless, and free from any hairs or feathers," Monk observed. "I suppose you didn't find any fingerprints, footprints, or DNA evidence."

Monk expected, and received, a negative response from Mr. McDuck.

"And the number one dime," said Monk, looking into the case. Sharona handed him a wipe, and he carefully lifted the glass lid.

"Dunnot touch me dime," McDuck warned. "I like to have only my self hold me dime. It's my most valuable possession."

"He won't," Sharona assured him.

Actually Disher seemed more inclined to grab the dime than Monk.

"There are prints in here," remarked Monk. "The inside of the case had several smudge marks."

"Don't look at me," said Scrooge McDuck. "I've not opened the case since me bin was robbed."

"This is easy," remarked Disher. "All we've got to do is take the prints . . ."

"They're glove marks," interrupted Monk, sniffing something. "You can see the manufacturer's name, "Big House."

Monk thought for a moment.

"I've got it," said Disher, snapping his fingers.

"You've go it?!" said Sharona and McDuck, together.

_In Black and White_

"A crime syndicate," observed Disher. "The mob - their other activities are peanuts compared to an operation like this. They infiltrated Scrooge McDuck Enterprises, even the money bin itself. They learned about Mr. McDuck's traps, and how to shut them off. One of them, probably a safe cracker, found out how to open the vault. Then, one dark night, a couple hundred mafioso came into the bin, took out the money, and cleaned up. Literally."

_In Living Color_

"Awk! That canna be," McDuck objected. "I've never let those tiny terrible trilobites meddle in my business affairs. I've made my fortune being smarter than the smarties and tougher than the toughies - and I made it square. I'm not about to lose it to some maniacal meddling malicious mobsters."

"Couldn't they get access to the bin?" asked Disher.

"Impossible!" exclaimed McDuck. "I have criminal background checks done on all my employees. Besides only meself, Huey, Dewey, and Louie know how to run me traps. And there's only one person in the world who knows the combination to the vault. And I'd never tell some gaggling grungy gangster how to get me money!"

"How would they get the money out of the bin?" observed Sharona.

"Uh . . . wheelbarrows," Disher replied.

"They'd have to stop time to do that," McDuck observed. "And with Gyro Gearloose's Time Teaser destroyed, they canna do that anymore."

"The Duckburg police would notice if a couple hundred gangsters came into town," said Monk, putting the final nail into the coffin of Disher's summation. "They would also have to arrange a fleet of trucks to come up here to remove the cash. It's impossible."

"Okay, then who did it?" Disher asked.

"I'm ninety percent sure it was done by your usual enemies, Mr. McDuck," said Monk, once again smelling the display case. "This time, they were smart enough, focused enough, and desperate enough to pull off a near perfect crime."

"But me, me nephews, Launchpad, even Duckworth, Mrs. Beakly and wee Webbie have scoured Duckburg looking for clues," Scrooge pointed out.

"They've done it differently this time," Monk pointed out. "Something you would never think of. Sometimes when you're too close to a case . . . ."

Sharona handed Monk a wipe, for his eyes. Trudy's murder case had clouded his mind.

Monk recovered.

"You have four major suspects - or groups of suspects. I took the opportunity to do some further research before I came. From least to most likely, the suspects would be . . . .

Magica Despell, the alleged 'witch' . . . ."

"She is a witch, lad," said Scrooge McDuck, shaking his head.

"Don't bother arguing," Sharona mouthed to Monk.

"But," said Monk, tensely, "She's only after your dime . . . and they didn't take your dime."

"Rules her out," Disher commented.

"Your second suspect is Dijon, the famous Barkladesh pickpocket," said Monk, thinking. "He tried to take your money once before."

"He tried to get crash crunching mites to devour my fortune," said McDuck, angrily. "But it canna be him."

"Yes," Monk said. "He's imprisoned in London, for trying to steal the Queen's change purse."

"He's locked up all right," said Disher. "I also researched the usual suspects - on the FBI's police files.

"Amazing," said Sharona, sarcastically.

"But then there's Flintheart Glomgold," Monk frowned. "He's one of your largest competitors, and he's as ruthless as Dale Beiderbeck. He would destroy your fortune out of spite."

"Aye," said McDuck, gravely. "That's Flinty alright."

"He's also the type to gloat," Monk speculated. "Just like Dale the Whale. But he wouldn't leave you your lucky dime. He'd probably gloat by leaving you an insignificant . . . ."

"A wooden nickle," Scrooge interjected. "Anyway it canna be him - Huey, Dewey, and Louis scouted out his mansion."

"Which leaves Ma Beagle and the Beagle Boys," Monk told McDuck.

"And they're a crime syndicate," Disher crowed. "Sort of."

"Aye," McDuck remarked. "Ma Beagle, her seven boys, and over a hundred cousins, uncles, and nephews. The whole bad brood."

"They have the manpower and the motive," Monk explained. "They are also the thieves with the most intimate knowledge of your bin. Somehow, they finally pulled off the robbery they have always dreamed of."

"Unless they hypnotized Gladstone Gander into helping them," Scrooge McDuck objected, "there's no way they could of beaten my traps."

"Mega Byte Beagle," observed Monk. "Working with Ma Beagle and the others. He's the only one who could find a way in. They probably forgot to take the dime. One of them, who was eating a McDuck Walnut Chocolate Bar, was going to take the dime but left it behind. You can smell it in the display case."

"Burger Beagle," Disher replied.

"Of course!" said McDuck.

"It's usually their style to take everything," Monk pondered. "But Burger, being one of the stupider Beagles, must of let it behind."

"But I had Launchpad fly over to Ma Beagle's . . . LAUNCHPAD!"

McDuck suddenly turned crimson. He rushed up the ladder, and sprinted into his office.

"Come on Adrian," Sharona sighed. "You too Randy."

Slowly, awkwardly, and laboriously; Sharona and Disher escorted Monk up the ladder, to the platform, and out the vault door.


	6. Biplane Follies

**Biplane Follies**

By the time Monk reached the top of the ladder, Sharona was limping and Lieutenant Disher was rubbing his neck.

"Way'd it go Monk," he complained.

They went out the vault door, Disher slamming it behind them.

Launchpad McQuack had already arrived, or rather crashed nearby. The tall, orange haired duck, dressed like an old school aviator, was standing rather sheepishly before Mr. McDuck.

As his side was a Doofus Drake, a large young duck wearing a junior woodchuck hat and eating a messy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. With his mouth open.

Monk was disgusted.

"YOU IDIOT!" shouted Scrooge McDuck. "I tell you to see if Ma Beagle's up to something! And you just fly over her place!"

"But Mr. McDee. There was nothing there," Launchpad protested. "I'd know if there's a couple zillion dollars laying around."

"A chain's only as strong as it's weakest link," muttered McDuck. "Three and half million dollars - plus expenses - and I could have probably found it myself."

"Launchpad did a great job," insisted Doofus.

Sharona felt inclined to agree with him.

"So this is the big city detective," said Launchpad suddenly , looking at Disher.

"No, that's only Randall Disher," McDuck explained (Disher frowned). "_He's_ the detective."

Launchpad energetically shook Monk's hand. Sharona produced two wipes.

"Launchpad McQuack," said the pilot. "First-class aviator, world merit badge champion, and Duckburg's greatest hero."

"That's for sure," seconded Doofus.

"And he works cheap," Scrooge put in, disgusted.

"And who are you?" Launchpad asked Sharona.

"Sharona Fleming. I"m Adrian Monk's assistant."

"Here have a picture," Launchpad said, pulling an autographed photograph of himself out of his coat pocket."

Sharona looked at it.

"Doofus Drake."

Before Monk could stop him, Doofus shook his hand, with his own sticky peanut butter and jelly covered one.

"Ugh," Monk groaned, shaking his hand in exasperation.

"Washroom's down the hall," Sharona said.

Monk ran off.

"Gee," said Doofus, "What did I do?"

By the time Monk had cleaned up, McDuck, McQuack and Doofus had left the building. Only Sharona and Disher were waiting outside the washroom door, apparently in conference.

They stopped talking as soon as Monk came out the door.

"Scrooge McDuck want's you to check out Launchpad's biplane," Sharona insisted. "Come on, we're late."

"Yeah, he said he want's you down now, or else we're fired," Disher added.

"He never really hired you," Monk responded.

"Come on, Adrian," Sharona said.

They went down the elevator. But Monk only had to take one look at the lethal hallway before he changed his mind.

"I'll stay here."

"Adrian, Scrooge McDuck turned off his traps."

"You can never be too careful."

"Walk where I walk," Disher told him.

With Disher leading, and Sharona tugging, Monk made his way quickly down the hall, only stepping on the black tiles.

He sighed in relief once they left the bin.

"The biplanes' over there," Disher told him. "Try looking in the backseat.

The small red, open plane was covered in thorns. If Monk didn't know better, he'd be sure the pilot had crashed through some trees, and ploughed through a half acre of thorn bushes, before finally coming to a stop within a half inch of the money bin.

Monk assumed he didn't know better, and the not-so-great Launchpad McQuack wasn't the world's best flyer. Looking carefully, he noticed the biplane had been frequently crashed, broken, patched, repaired, and polished. McQuack was a obviously committed pilot, who frequently crashed. He didn't seem to be involved in the crime though, and Monk felt confident the Beagle Boys had masterminded the crime, without the aid or knowledge of the pilot.

Most of all, Monk concluded he made a wise decision when he turned down Scrooge's offer to have Launchpad fly him into Duckburg.

"Why does he want me to check the plane?" Monk asked. "This guy's been working for McDuck for years. From what I can tell, he doesn't seem like he's an embezzler. But then again . . . if he fly's the way I think he does, he would need Mr. McDuck's money to pay for all the aircrafts he must of destroyed."

"Don't you think it's suspicious he didn't check out Ma Beagle's hide out?" Disher asked.

Sharona mouthed something to Disher, along the lines of "Don't overdo it."

Monk climbed into the back seat.

"He had nothing here besides his autographed photo's, a harmonica, and some spare scarves. I'm 85 percent sure he didn't have anything to do . . . ."

Monk stopped. He realized what Sharona and Disher were up to.

However, it was too late. Sharona and Disher climbed in, on either side of Monk, jamming him into the middle of the back seat (properly only built for one), and making his escape futile.

"It's for you own good Adrian," Sharona apologized. "Mr. McDuck wants to fly to Ma Beagle's. Don't worry, Doofus told me Launchpad was a terrific pilot."

"So did Launchpad," Disher observed, piercingly.

Monk didn't know what was worse. Being squeezed in the back seat, or being about to take off in a biplane.

"Ah, there you are, laddie," McDuck said, climbing into the front seat. "I hope Sharona told you I went to tell Duckworth to take the limo home."

"I think this is a bad idea," Monk commented.

"Flying with Launchpad always is," McDuck replied. "But his plane is the quickest way to Ma Beagle's."

Launchpad frowned as he came up to plane. He had overheard Mr. McDuck.

"Here little buddy," he said, helping Doofus up.

Then he also climbed into the front.

"Oof," McDuck was squeezed almost as badly as Monk.

"Afraid?" Disher asked Sharona.

"No," she replied, bold-faced. "What, are you?"

"Na," Disher answered. "This'll be cool."

"Grow up."

They were interrupted by an "Away we go," from Launchpad.

The plane turned around, and sped down killmotor hill twice as fast as Disher's grandmother's Buick. Just before they hit the main road (and a milk truck), the plane took off. Almost vertically.

Monk fainted.

_A few minutes later_

"Adrian, Adrian?" Sharona was saying, greatly concerned.

"Am I back in San Francisco?" asked Monk.

"No, we're in a biplane over Duckburg," Disher answered.

Monk looked past Sharona, at the ground hundreds of feet below. He shuddered.

"Adrian!" complained Sharona.

She felt like a blender.

"Great takeoff, huh?" observed Launchpad.

"Yeah, big buddy," said Doofus.

"Get it out of your system," McDuck told him.

"Hey, it was pretty cool!" Disher insisted.

"Takes some skill to pull that off," Sharona told the pilot.

"Skill? You ain't seen nothing yet."

"No Launchpad," groaned Scrooge McDuck. No!"

They did three loops in midair, descended within ten feet of the ground, flew upside down through a barn, made a u turn, climbed to 1000 feet, then went into a tailspin, and leveled off just above the trees.

Monk's face was an extremely unhealthy bluish grey. He was completely petrified. McDuck was furious, his cane gripping the wing, and his left hand gripping his hat. Disher and Doofus were exhilarated. Sharona was surprisingly impressed.

"Never do that again," shouted McDuck, jumping up and down, ready to swig Launchpad with his cane.

"Can't, we're ready to land," Launchpad said.

They were flying over the woods. A small, unpainted wooden house was up ahead, bars in the windows, an ancient car off to the side.

"Uh, oh," he added.

"What!" said Scrooge.

"Fuel line's clogged."

The engine sputtered, and the propeller stopped turning.

"We're gonna crash!" Launchpad told them.

"What else is new?" observed McDuck.

"CRASH!" yelled Disher and Sharona.

Monk was about to faint again.

The plane dived toward the tree, bouncing on the branches of an oak, a maple, a willow, and an apple tree. The apples rained down on them.

Hitting the ground, with three more bounces, the plane crashed softly into the side of Ma Beagle's house. So soft, the propeller didn't even fall off.

"Any crash you can walk away from is a good crash," said the pilot.

"You saved us," Sharona complimented.

"Not by much," commented McDuck. "Launchpad, you'll never work for me again. Your Fired."

"Not again," groaned McQuack.

"This time I mean it."

By this time Disher had unsteady sprawled from the plane, having come around to Monk's opinion of Launchpad McQuack. The violently shivering Monk had also climbed out of the plane, and fell onto the ground himself. If he hadn't been germphobic, he'd have kissed it.

Sharona helped him to his feet. And held him up for a couple minutes, until he could get his feet to support him.

"And I thought it would be tough for him," thought Sharona.

She now had a sore shoulder to match her sore leg.

"D-do you hear something?" Monk asked.

"Must be my stomach," Doofus answered.

"When are you not hungry?" muttered McDuck

"No, someone's calling for help," Monk said, as he unsteadily stumbled toward the house.

"Help, Help!" went the voice. It was a older woman's voice, rather cranky and bitter. It was also extremely hoarse, as if it had pleading for assistance for a long time.

"Brigadoon! It's Ma Beagle!" McDuck pronounced, greatly surprised.

The others ran after Monk, and followed him, through the door, and into the old wooden house.


	7. Ma Beagle's Blues

**Ma Beagle's Blues**

Monk was the first one in the house. He saw a family portrait on the wooden walls. He saw Big Time, Burger, Bouncer, Bankjob, Bugle and Baby Face, with Ma Beagle smiling in the center. Wanted posters of other family members also graced the living room. But the calls for help were coming from the kitchen.

He went through the door and found Ma Beagle, an old dog-faced woman in red jacket and dress, sporting a flower in her hat, and a furious expression.

"Don't just stand there," she ordered Monk. "Let me loose."

Monk wondered if it was a good idea. He quickly glanced around the kitchen. He was 90 percent sure it wasn't a trap. But then, he was 65 percent sure that Ma Beagle would try to escape once he let her go. Contrariwise, he was also 75 percent sure that if he let Ma Beagle loose, she's be more likely to cooperate. He was also 95 percent sure that it would be the decent thing to do. Morever, he was 100 percent sure that a confession while being physically tied to a chair was inadmissable in court.

While Monk was impaired by his indecisiveness, the others entered the room.

"Scrooge," spat Ma Beagle. "And his idiot pilot."

"He's no longer my pilot," McDuck fumed. "And what loathsome thing have you done to my precious money?"

"I ain't got your dough, Scroogie," Ma Beagle stated. "Will someone untie me?"

Disher obliged, and got a knuckle sandwich for his trouble.

"Now where are my boys?" she asked, angrily.

"If we knew where your larcenous litter was, we'd be after them already," McDuck told her.

"I want to see them right now!" screamed Ma Beagle. "I bet it was you who pulled that trick on me. I want them back!"

"We don't know where the Beagle Boys are," Disher repeated.

Sharona rolled her eyes.

"Well I want them back!" Ma Beagle yelled. To herself, she muttered. You say your loot's gone. Then _she_ must of took it."

"Who?" asked Doofus.

"Daisy Duck?" guessed Launchpad.

"Why Daisy Duck?" McDuck asked him.

"I don't know, I never met her. It could be her just as well as anybody else."

"Why did I ever hire him?" sighed McDuck, to noone in particular.

"Because he's the best, the bravest . . . " started Doofus."

"Will you be quiet about your helter-skelter hero," McDuck responded.

"He's not the worst flyer . . ." Sharona started.

"Yes he is," interrupted Disher.

"I bet I crashed more planes than you've gave out tickets," Launchpad countered.

"Will everyone listen to me!" Ma Beagle screeched, right into Monk's ear.

This went on for a couple minutes.

After rubbing his right ear (then the left, to be even), Monk spent his time taking in the crime scene. No sign of money, no marks on the floor or table indicating any coins had been there. Ma Beagle was definitely not involved. There were signs of a struggle. Not much of one, whoever _she _was had won the Beagle Boys over to _her _side, against their very own mother. He was 60 percent sure that it must of been a very attractive young girl. He smelled the faint scent of a perfume, he presumed that it was 'Black Magic.' Trudy wore it on their first date. Besides, the young girl theory was, of course, the most reasonable answer. But things hadn't been that reasonable lately.

But how many boys were there? Monk looked at the table. Seven tin bowls, cleaned up. Could it be that Big Time, Burger, Bouncer, Bank Job, Bugle, and Baby Face had all went against their mother.

There was no sign indicating Mega Bytes involvement. No electronics anywhere. If Bomber had shown up, there would likely be an aero-plane nearby. Nothing, even during Launchpad's crash Monk had scouted the territory. No motorcycles, that ruled out Biker Beagle. Other Beagles would necessitate the presence of a car, so they couldn't of been there. It was just Ma Beagle and her seven favorite boys.

Monk was 90 percent sure that Ma Beagle would talk. She wanted her gang back, with or without McDucks money. Having her brood revolt against her was worse than losing the chance to get three cubic acres of money. She was Ma Beagle, and her boys had better watch out.

"Everybody!" tried Monk. "Can you pay attention?" I have a plan."

The crowd argued on.

"Hey, is your boss saying something?" Launchpad asked Sharona.

Sharona turned to Monk.

"Adrian?" she asked kindly.

"I have . . . a plan, what to do," Monk repeated, hesitantly.

Sharona glared at the others.

"ADRIAN KNOWS WHAT TO DO," she yelled.

McDuck payed attention. Doofus and Disher stopped shouting.

"Speak up laddie?"

"I don't want to listen to the milquetoast," Ma Beagle complained. "I want my . . . ."

"QUIET," yelled Launchpad.

Ma Beagle pouted.

"Ma Beagle, whoever has your boys," explained Monk, "has Mr. McDuck's money."

"That's supposed to be a secret," Disher objected.

"I already told her, you numbskull," McDuck interrupted.

"Let the milquetoast speak!" Ma Beagle put in.

"I can get your gang back, if you help us recover Mr. McDuck's money."

"WHAT?" shouted McDuck, pulling out some feathers, and whacking the nearest person to him (Disher) with his cane. That thieving hag? Work with her, to get back _my money_?"

Disher rubbed the lump on his head.

"Quiet Scroogie," Ma Beagle objected. "He's right. I can get your cash anytime I want. I want my boys back from that imposter!"

"Impost who?" asked Launchpad.

"Never mind," muttered McDuck.

"Sit down in the living room," said Ma Beagle, putting on a show of being hospitable. "I'll give you some of the desserts I made for my boys who are still in the slammer. They'd spoil if I mailed them now, so now I might as well give them to you."

"Great!" exclaimed Doofus.

"What did you put in them?" Sharona replied, "Cyanide."

"I WAS GIVING THEM TO MY BOYS! Do you think I'd hand them poison."

"Trust her, lassie," observed McDuck. "I know what she puts in her cantankerous cakes, and it's anything but poison. Besides, I'm going to watch her so she does not try to escape."

Monk, Sharona, Launchpad, Doofus and Disher all had a seat on the worn-out living room chesterfield. Monk, of course, felt very uncomfortable.

At last, Ma Beagle came out with a tray of messy desserts. She was followed by Scrooge McDuck. who came out with a exasperated expression.

Monk took the least messy of them, what Ma Beagle called a 'Raspberry Revolver Pie.' Sharona took the 'Strawberry Short File Cake.' Launchpad had the 'Dig-out Dutch Chocolate Surprise.' Doofus took the 'Tapioca Tommy-Gun Turnip Pudding,' and Disher eagerly grabbed the 'Huckleberry Hand-Grenade Cheese-Cake.' McDuck, ever so cautiously, took one of the colossal 'Blueberry bran-bomb muffins."

"Are you sure that Doofus should have the pudding?" McDuck asked Ma Beagle.

McDuck sat down, and began to carefully nibble the edges of the muffin.

"He doesn't know how to fire it," she said, sitting on an armchair, "Anyway want to hear my story, or don't you."

"Yes, we'd appreciate it," said Sharona, starting on her cake.

"I broke all seven of them out of the big house for my birthday," Ma Beagle bragged, pointing at the Beagle family portrait (Monk and Disher fought the urge to arrest her). "It was like a reunion, all seven of them home at once. I could of gone. . . insane putting up with the goofs! Big Time and Bank Job arguing about who the leader was. Bouncer and Baggy acting the stupidest, because, of course, they both are. Burger eating me out of house an home. Bugle annoying me with his stupid bongo drums. Baby Face being, generally, underfoot. It was . . . heavenly."

"Yowtch!" screamed Launchpad, who had almost busted his beak biting into a shovel. The handle subsequently crashed into his head.

"Oh excuse me," apologized Ma Beagle. "How did that get in there?'

"I could only imagine," muttered McDuck.

Monk looked dubiously at his, admittedly delicious Raspberry Revolver Pie.

"It doesn't make sense," he thought. "Why would she put it in a pie? It'd never pass a metal detector."

He continued eating neatly on.

"Then she came here one day, just after my boy had finished supper. They were on their latest plan to rob Scrooge's money, and I was giving my imput. More like the whole plan, really."

"We're all so proud of you," sneered McDuck, who had eaten the blueberry bran and had wisely decided not bite the bomb.

"Then _she _came," spat Ma Beagle.

"You already covered that," said Sharona.

With a clang, she bit into a metal file. She quickly threw it over her shoulder.

"Who is _she_?" asked Monk. "Ugh . . . wipe, wipe, wipe, wipe."

Sharona handed him several wipes.

He had bit the bullet, one of six in fact, that went along with the Colt revolver Ma Beagle had baked into the pie. He removed it from the final piece of pie, wiped it, and placed it gently on the table. Then he wiped his face, and continued to gag.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ma Beagle went on, again. "How . . . "

Monk rushed the washroom, and proceeded to wash out his mouth.

"Wait for the lad to return," McDuck fumed. "At least I'm not paying him by the hour."

_Two minutes later_

"I'll get him," Sharona sighed. "Adrian? Adrian? Your wasting time."

_A half minute later_

"I'm finished," announced Doofus, who had picked the machine gun clean.

"Here, have Mr. M's pie," offered Launchpad, still nursing his beak. "Something tells me he's not going to eat it."

"Can I have your cake too?" asked Doofus.

"Nm, twats fwor me," chewed Disher, grabbing it.

He neglected his Huckleberry Hand-Grenade Cheese-Cake, to gulp down the rest of the Dig-out Dutch Chocolate Surprise.

"Aw," sighed Doofus.

"Just what I need," complained Scrooge, consulting his watch. "Two human garbage disposals, and a defunct detective wasting my time.

"Hey!" shouted Ma Beagle, "Is that a cut at my cooking?"

_One minute later_

Monk finally returned, to see Ma Beagle and Scrooge McDuck fuming, and Disher and Doofus both eating with their mouths full.

Sharona gave him _the glare_, and his seat.

"Who is _she_?" Monk asked her.

"_She_ is me," Ma Beagle announced.

"Huhm?" garbled Disher, eating the last morsel of the Dig-Out Dutch Chocolate Surprise.

"My double," the old woman sobbed. "She told my boys she was the one. She then challenged me to a meanness contest. And she won! My boys tied me up, and left with her on some scheme to steal McDuck's moolah."

"Burst me bagpipes," said Scrooge sarcastically.

"One more question," Monk asked. "Does Burger like McDuck chocolate bars?'

"He likes everything," Ma Beagle replied.

"Well, this led us nowhere. What do we do now?" McDuck asked, .

"Look up Glomgold," Monk answered. "He's the one most likely to hire someone to impersonate Ma Beagle, to set up a plan to rob the money bin. But it doesn't add up. There's something more to this case."

"I'll tell you why it doesn't add up, you blithering idiot," McDuck objected. "She's fed you a pack of lies."

"Adrian knows what he's doing," Sharona put in.

Monk explained his observations to McDuck, his theory about the woman, and how it could explain the presence of another Ma Beagle."

"Well, laddy," McDuck replied, "You may be right. But if your not . . . ."

"It _should_ be Glomgold," Monk replied. "Still, why would he need to have someone impersonate Ma Beagle? He could strike a deal with the Beagle Boys without resorted to that. Of course, it could have meant paying them himself. But something's wrong. I'm 70 percent sure there's more to it. I haven't solved the case yet."

"Well, you said he probably has it," Sharona told him.

"Then question him," McDuck told them. "Tonight you can stay at me mansion. That way you won't be able to charge me exorbitant motel fees. And if you don't solve the case, it'll mean I can charge you three $200 a night."

"Why do we have to pay for Disher?" Sharona objected.

"Well take it," said Monk.

Sharona rolled her eyes.

"Lieutenant Disher's choking!" exclaimed Doofus, suddenly. "Launchpad, you've got to save him."

Disher was blue in the face. He had eaten all of his huckleberry hand grenade cheesecake, including the hand grenade. It was now stuck in his throat.

Sharona rushed over and performed the hymelick maneuver.

Disher coughed off the grenade, and his face went from blue to red.

"Where's the pin?" asked McDuck.

"I swallowed it," groaned Disher.

Monk raced to the grenade, carried it into the kitchen, and placed it neatly in the refrigerator. He and the others hit the floor in the living room.

"BANG!

The fridge was ruined, and various weaponry and desserts were scattered all over the kitchen, as well as the living room.

_Five minutes later_

"I expect you to pay for that fridge, copper!" said Ma Beagle, surveying the damage.

"I better call Duckworth to drive us home," spat McDuck, staring at Disher. "Before we have yet another incident."

"Why get Duckworth?" asked Launchpad. "I can fly you home."

Monk felt faint.

"I fired you, remember," observed Mr. McDuck.

"Shoot, I forgot," Launchpad said, dejected. "Come on Doofus."

The two of them went outside, and took off in the biplane, scraping some trees in route.

"Good riddance," fumed Mr. McDuck. "Fortunately I own an oil company, so we can drive back. Otherwise all three of us would have to take a twenty mile hike over these hills."

"I'm not paying for your phone call, Scrooge," Ma Beagle responded. "Even though we're temporarily working together, you'll have to cough up a quarter."

Scrooge looked at Monk, Monk looked at Sharona, Sharona produced the quarter. And gave them _her glare_.


	8. Monk at McDuck Manor

**Monk at McDuck Manor**

**Please refer to my note at the bottom regarding Sharona and this chapter's plot developments.**

The ride in the old limousine was nothing like the ride in Launchpad's biplane. To Monk's enormous relief. The old butler drove dependably and predictably, Scrooge not in pursuit of anyone in particular, nor on his way to the bank or his money bin.

Monk's pulse, which between revolver pies, crashing planes, and lethal hallways, had been racing ahead, now slowed as much as it possibly could.

Sharona, who used the opportunity to call Benji and her sister on her cell, realized this. She was happy Monk had a chance to relax. She was even happier to find that she now had a chance to relax from him.

Disher was going over his notebook, trying to solve the case, and getting nowhere.

Little did the three of them realize their enemies waited in ambush, in the foyer of McDuck manor itself.

_At McDuck Manor, somewhere by the balustrade looking down toward the front entrance_

"We've got to get rid of this guy," said Huey. "Why's Uncle Scrooge hiring him? He ought to let us go and solve the case. We have the advice the_ Junior Woodchuck Guidebook _gave us."

"_When you can't find any suspects_," quoted Dewy, _"Look at the clues and try suspects you've already ruled out._"

"Probably because we were getting nowhere," shrugged Louie. "We got Shedlock Jones to help us in London, the case of "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. McDuck."

"Yeah, but that was different," Dewy replied. "He was an honorary Junior Woodchuck."

"Right," said the other two nephews.

"But Uncle Scrooge is paying through the beak for this guy . . . who was kicked off the police force. I have some stuff on him right here," said Dewy, holding up something he printed off of wikipedia.

"He went crazy and yeller," said Huey, looking it over.

"Why?" asked Louie.

"His wife was killed and he couldn't solve the case," said Dewy sympathetically. "Now he's afraid of practically everything."

"Jeepers. Maybe we should go easy on him?" suggested Louie.

"Na," they said in unison, and completed their plans for an all out war.

_Sometime later_

McDuck and company entered the mansion. Sharona impressed by the size, Monk altering a portrait that was slightly crooked, and Disher looking around, once again, like a tourist.

"Ah, Mrs. Beakly, and wee Webbigail," said McDuck, introduced the rotund housekeeper and her small granddaughter, Quackie Patch doll in hand.

"Hello," said Mrs. Beakly politely, "I have dinner ready."

"If she didn't eat it all," Disher whispered to Monk.

Sharona ignored Disher, and greeted Webby.

They proceeded to the dining room, passing under the second floor hallway.

Some water balloons, or rather mud balloons, fell to the first floor hall.

Monk found himself suddenly muddy.

"SHARONA," he called.

Sharona left off telling Webby about her job as a nurse, and rushed to Monk's aid.

"What did you do, Adrian?" she asked, shocked.

"I was attacked," Monk said looked up suspiciously, while squirming and trying to maneuver his way out of the jacket.

_Five minutes later_

Monk had dressed in clean clothes, was looking suspiciously around for McDuck's nephews, and thrown out his 'irredeemable' clothes. Unknown to him, Scrooge McDuck had recovered it, and ordered Duckworth to alter them to fit himself.

Monk sat with the others in the long dining room, to the left of Sharona, the right of Disher, and directly across from Huey, Dewy and Louie. McDuck sat at the head of the table, Mrs. Beakly sat beyond Webby, on Huey Dewy and Louie's side.

"I'd like everything on separate plates," Monk told Duckworth.

"Very good sir," said Duckworth, with an eyebrow raised.

Sharona rolled her eyes. More worrying, the nephews exchanged significant glances.

"We like our food mixed together," said Huey.

They mixed their potatoes, beef, applesauce, and corn together in a multicolored paste. They dug in, right in front of Monk.

Monk lost his appetite.

"More meat," muttered Disher.

"It'll cost you extra," said McDuck. "It's not included."

Disher helped himself to Monk's plate.

"Do you have any Sierra Springs water?" Monk asked Mr. McDuck.

"AWK!" McDuck started. "ME, waste me money on _bottled_ water. Of course not."

Sharona glanced at Monk.

"Why?" he said quietly. "I only asked."

"I can't believe you didn't realize he wouldn't buy water like that," Sharona responded.

"I expected he wouldn't, but it would have been good if he had."

"Don't worry," Sharona spoke up. "Adrian packed his own."

"I should hope so," McDuck scoffed, storming into his study. "Curse me kilts. _Bottled_ water!"

"You know what you should have," said Dewy. "Milk."

With that the three nephews sprayed milk at Monk.

Monk, who had come through the biplane, the mallets, the long ladder, was paralyzed in fear from the thought of being covered in that messiest of all beverages, milk.

Disher was overcome with laughter, Mrs. Beakly with rage.

"ADRIAN!" yelled Sharona. "I"m telling you three . . . .

It was unnecessary. Mrs. Beakly had escorted them from the room.

_Ten Minutes Later_

Monk had been put in the cleanest room in the mansion, was resting on an armchair, having given McDuck another new jacket.

Sharona had a room nearby. Disher had been put in the attic.

"I swear Adrian," said Sharona. "You have to solve this case. Prove you are a great detective, and you'll have no more trouble from McDuck's nephews."

"I don't know," said Monk, exhausted.

"You have to," Sharona reminded him.

Monk thought about it. He did not, he could not, give up on a case. It was his case, and he was going to solve it. If he could. No matter what sort of _animated _illogical escapade he'd fall into next.

"I have to," he agreed. "Tomorrow we're going to visit Flintheart Glomgold.

"As long as it's not tomorrow night," said Sharona, cheerily. "I have a date."

"Not with . . . he's a duck," Monk objected.

"He's not really a duck. He walks, talks, can't fly by flapping his arms, and wears clothes. He even grew up in the MidWest."

"He has feathers and a beak."

"And orange hair," said Sharona, rolling her eyes. "Don't be so intolerant. It's just one date. Nothing serious. Just a talk with a real adventurer."

"I'm being reasonable," scoffed Monk. "Besides, he's completely incompetent."

"Launchpad's picking me up a six," said Sharona, glaring at Monk. "If we pick up a really good lead we can postpone."

Monk leaned back into the chair.

"What are you doing?" Sharona asked him.

"Rolling my eyes," Monk explained.

He was, in a sort of precise, squarish movement that was as exact and jerky as could be found on the traveling deadlights of a clock shaped like Felix the Cat.

"Grow up," Sharona suggested, and retired to her room.

**Explanation:**

**In several episodes of Monk, Sharona dates the villain, or someone dishonest. If the person's honest, then her dates goes wrong. **

**Before anyone panics - this is a just going to be another disaster for Sharona. It's also an excuse to have another chapter starring Launchpad.**

**There's also an episode of Ducktales where Ma Beagle cons a judge into declaring Scrooge and her man and wife. So it's not completed unheard of by the show's standards. And it's only one 'date.'**

**One more thing. In case you' re wondering, I chose Sharona instead of Natalie because:**

**-personally, I like her better than Natalie**

**-I believe that Natalie wouldn't be as interesting in a story like this. Sharona's more, well, _animated._**


	9. A Tale of Two Nemeses

**A Tale of Two Nemeses**

It was just Monk and Sharona. They had both woken up early, and gained time on Disher who chose to sleep in, somewhere in the stone tower at the top of McDuck manor. A. K. A. The unwelcome guest room.

Flintheart's mansion was a stately, yet very crooked building in the country immediately outside Duckburg. It was surrounded by dead trees, which gave it the persona of a haunted house. Of course it was not haunted, and Monk wouldn't have believed it if it was.

"Adrian," suggested Sharona. "How are we going to get in?"

"I'm a professional," Monk told her.

Sharona mouthed something, rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms.

A servant opened the door.

"I have an appointment. I'm a representative of Dale the wh. . . . Biederbeck."

Monk coughed this up with much chagrin, and silently apologizing to Trudy for the deception.

Sharona was impressed, and said as much.

"But why Dale the Whale? I thought he was your nemesis?"

"This is real life. I don't have a nemesis. He's just . . . my worst enemy."

"Trust me. He's your nemesis."

The servant came back and demanded their credentials.

Sharona looked pointedly at Monk.

"He lives at San Quentin Prison . . . his former residence was 1938 Boris Place, his number was (905) 388-4389. Besides that, we know his name and we know what he does."

It was a short time later that Scrooge's nemesis, an old duck in pancake hat, kilt, and full beard greeted them coldly in his office.

"So Whale sent you," scowled Glomgold, in his low, rough voice. "The fool ate himself into being an invalid, and got himself in trouble with that San Francisco judge murder case. What could you possibly have to offer from me?"

Monk was wracked by indecision, however Sharona remembered something she heard from Scrooge about Glomgold.

"It's not what we're going to offer you," Sharona explained. "It's what we may offer Scrooge."

Glomgold started.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "Whale knows what Scroogie's like. He's not going to deal with the likes of him. Makes his money square . . . blah blah blah. If You Can't Beat Them, Cheat Them!"

"This is an honest venture," Sharona explained. "By way of a cousin. Scrooge will go for it. We'd rather have his capital."

Glomgold had his doubts, but he was more wary of losing a deal to Scrooge. He leaned forward.

"Scrooge doesn't have the capital to invest," he hissed.

Sharona gave a rather good fake laugh. Monk gave a very bad one.

"He has three cubic acres in the money bin alone," Monk said, hesitantly.

Glomgold snickered.

"You'll soon find that I'm the richest duck in the world. Between Scroogie's . . . losses, my new banking complex, the new improved Air Glomgold, the floating island resort hotels, and my new diamond digger machines, Scrooge is a poor second."

The servant returned.

"A representative from Dale Biederbeck to see you," he announced.

It was Disher.

"How do I know you're also an associate of the whale?" Glomgold asked, suspiciously.

"I'm not," said Disher. "San Francisco Police Department. I have some questions to ask you."

"Are these people with you?" asked Glomgold, gesturing toward Sharona and Monk.

"Of course," said Disher, benevolently.

The three of them were unceremoniously booted out.

"Nice going," spat Sharona, rubbing her lower posterior.

Monk brushed himself off. He was somewhat dusty, but otherwise undamaged. Disher, on the other hand, had landed into a mud puddle.

"What'll we do now?" he complained.

"We see Gyro Gearloose," said Monk. "I think I know how Glomgold did it."


	10. Mr Monk and the Inventor

**Mr. Monk meets the Inventor**

_On the Road Again_

"Turn left here," said Monk, reading a map of the city.

Sharona turned left at the next light.

"You missed the street," Monk objected. "I meant that side street, over there."

"Why did you wait 'til the last moment?" Sharona remarked.

They went around the block and were again on the road to Gyro Gearloose's barn.

"What's this guy have to do with the case?" asked Disher, perplexed.

"He invented Glomgold's boring machines," Monk explained.

"If they're boring," quipped Disher, "why bother asking about them."

Disher received an eye roll from Sharona, however, Monk took the question seriously.

"Digging machines," he explained. "The money bin isn't protected well from attack underneath. The money bin doesn't even have a basement. If you could find a way through the floor of the vault, you'd could possibly find a way to remove Mr. McDuck's fortune."

_At Gyro's Barn_

Gyro's shop was an old wooden shed, atop a hill at the very edge of the city. Various inventions of practical and impractical purposes laid around the hill.

Sharona sighed, no sooner had Monk left the Volvo, than he began straightening out Gyro's quasi-junkyard.

"Adrian," she begged.

"Just a . . . moment," Monk responded, righting a toppled automatic dressing machine.

They were stopped before they could argue about it, by the appearance of Gyro Gearloose, a lanky bespeckled bird with red hair.

"Hi," he said, distractedly, not even looking at his visitors. "You caught me just in time to see my newest and latest invention. The multi-purpose automatic electric robotic cleaner. MPAERC for short."

A strange iron contraption followed him out of the barn, sporting a dozen brooms, mops, wash clothes, and hedge clippers.

"All I do is push this button," explained Gyro, pushing a red button marked "The Works."

The machine wheeled around at lightning speed, polishing, pushing, cutting, and righting anything crooked, upside down, or sideways.

"IT works," announced Gyro, proudly.

"It's amazing," Sharona complimented, approvingly.

Monk was amazed. Delighted. Astounded. It was the invention of the century. The millennium.

"Where can I get one," asked Monk, momentarily forgetting the case of the missing cash.

"You can't," sighed Gyro. "Mr. McDuck doesn't want me to build any more robots because my first robot . . . Armstrong . . . nearly took over the world, and my giant construction robots were stolen by Ma Beagle and the Beagle Boys. But I don't see . . . ."

He was interrupted by Disher.

"Mmffrmfmmm," tried Disher.

The robot had attacked him, and was rubbing him as if he had fallen into a dumpster.

"Needs work," groaned Gyro.

He pushed the button again, to the great relief of Disher.

Disher spat the soap from his mouth.

The four of them went inside, and went through the usual procedure. Introducing themselves, shaking hands, and Sharona giving Monk a wipe to clean his hands.

Monk couldn't help himself. He had to straighten the furniture, and touch every single invention.

"We're working for Mr. McDuck," Sharona explained.

"What about?" asked Gyro.

"It's confidential," Monk explained, apologetically.

"What do you know about these boring machines?" asked Disher.

"My inventions are not boring," objected Gyro, surprised at the question.

"We mean the diamond mind boring machines," Sharona put in."

"Oh, them," said Gyro, relieved. "I built them for Flintheart Glomgold. They can dig ten miles deep underground, at a speed of 20 mph. They can bore through solid rock as easily as through sand. They'll revolutionize the diamond industry. Best of all, they're theft-proof. You have to activate the 15 digit code by remote control in order to allow them to start - and you can stop them the same way - instantly. With these machines, nothing can go wrong."

"Is it possible someone could use them in Duckburg, for a robbery?" asked Monk.

"No," smiled Gyro. "I only made seven, and they're in South Africa. I just heard they were still there."

Gyro showed them a Capetown newspaper from a two week old paper. There was a feature on his revolutionary new gadget, and how Glomgold was using it to great effect.

Monk eyed the paper very closely.

"Couldn't they have souped their engines up," proposed Disher. "And sped over here."

"That's possible," admitted Gyro. "But you'd know they were here. They kick up a cloud of dust a mile high, and get dirt over everything."

"Wipe, wipe," Monk demanded.

Sharona handed him the whole case.

"Couldn't," asked Monk, once he had recovered from the idea, "they have used an earlier prototype of your cleaning device. And by the way, once you find a seller and get it perfected, can I purchase one?"

"Sure," said Gyro, amiably, taking note of Monk's eagerness. "I'll even give you this one once I have it done. But this is the first prototype, I haven't made any others."

Monk tried again.

"Have you made any digging devices before this?'

"Not with anyone else knowing," remarked Gyro. "Mr. McDuck has nothing to fear.

"How's that?" asked Disher.

Gyro Gearloose had taken all three of them by surprise.

"There's nothing around . . . besides these boring machines . . . that can break through the bottom of the bin, now that it's been reinforced. And you can't get the machines within 40 miles of the bin, without Mr. McDuck knowing. Mr. McDuck's money is perfectly safe."

Sharona, Monk, and Disher said their goodbyes, and left the abnormally astute Gyro Gearloose.

"Where do we go now?" asked Sharona, as they boarded the Volvo.

"El Capitan?" tried Disher.

"He hasn't been heard since he left for South America," Monk answered.

"Yeah," admitted Disher. "Besides the geezer's only MO is to get the Treasure of the Golden Suns. He's been after it long enough."

"How long?" asked Sharona.

"Try 400 years," Disher answered.

"He's crazy," said Monk, dismissively.

"As defective as you," retorted Disher.

"Worse than Ambrose," Monk answered back. "He can't possibly . . . ."

"Forget it," groaned Sharona. "All that matters is he didn't do it. So who did?"

"I don't have the answer," Monk admitted. "I'm 85 percent sure the Beagle Boys and Glomgold are involved, and so is that Ma Beagle impersonator. Find her and you should find the money, and the key to the entire robbery."

"How'll we do that."

"We'll go over the files of the Duckburg police, and investigate everyone who ever tried to steal Mr. McDuck's money, or tried to disrupt McDuck or his business."

"Didn't the nephews already do that?" asked Disher.

"You and Disher do it," Sharona told him. "I have a date."

"What about the deadline?" asked Disher.

"One evening," Sharona insisted.

"With who?" asked Disher.

"The pilot," answered Monk.

"You got to be kidding."

"I'm not," said Sharona.


	11. Four Crashes and a Breakup

**Four Crashes and a Break-Up**

"Launchpad Unlimited" was the name over Launchpad's wooden house. Working for Mr. McDuck, spending a fortune on airplanes and airplane repairs, didn't leave much for housing. Not that Launchpad wanted a large house, or needed one.

The hangar next to the garage was another story. Launchpad's aircraft, at least the aircraft in working order, were there. There was the biplane they had flown in, the joyrider. There was a large four engine airplane with an enormous propeller. There was even a jet and a helicopter. Launchpad could fly anything, it was only landing that was a problem.

Sharona had dressed up for her 'date,' as she carefully walked up and rang the bell.

Launchpad in tie, usual jacket, scarf and cap greeted her.

"Hey Sharona," he joked.

Instead of rolling her eyes, she smiled. Although, momentarily, she remembered the married man who had greeted her in the same way, during a brief romance in "Mr. Monk takes a Vacation."

"Let's get rolling," added Launchpad. With that, he tripped across threshold, and crashed outside the door.

They both laughed.

They boarded the joyrider. Launchpad turned red.

"I can't get it to move."

"You forgot to take out the wheel blocks," Sharona observed. "I'll get them."

"We'll get them for yous," offered a seemingly kindly old dog-faced lady, and a dog-faced old gentleman.

They had happened by, seemingly by coincidence, and were eager to do their good deed. The old lady was very ugly, overweight with stubble on her face. She wore a placard with a number on it over her dress. Apparently, someone had taken a bite out of it. The unshaven old gentleman wore a very baggy suit, with numbered bill.

The two amiable strangers hovered around the plane for a couple minutes, then took out the wheel blocks.

Launchpad made a perfect takeoff.

"Nice to know there are still some friendly folks in the world," Launchpad observed.

"Yes, they were," said Sharona, who seemed suspicious.

They flew around Duckburg, peacefully by Launchpad's standards. A couple of hairpin turns, and a loop by the Duckburg Bay Bridge, and of course, the Double Decker Treetop Bebop Tuck and Roll, to show off, but the flight was otherwise normal.

"Your pilot has finished your tour of Duckburg," Launchpad announced into a surplusage microphone. "We will now make a _smooth_ landing, and have dinner. For some reason, crashes seem to make people loose their appetites."

Launchpad made an easy approach to a small airstrip on the far side of Duckburg Bay.

Until the propeller fell off.

"Uh-oh," remarked Launchpad, as they began to dive. "I thought I fixed it."

"WELL YOU DIDN'T," screamed Sharona, as they plunged into a tale spin.

They crashed just beyond the end of the runway. At a right angle to the ground. The joyrider, was, to all appearances, a total wreck. Yet Launchpad emerged from the smashed plane, dusty but uninjured. Aside from being terribly jarred, slightly cut and bruised, Sharona was also alright.

"Any crash you can stumble away from," said Launchpad, disorientated, "is a good one."

Sharona looked hard for a compliment.

"I can't believe no one ever gets seriously hurt when you crash," was the best she could dredge up.

"You're talking to the king of wings," Launchpad bragged, as they walked toward the restaurant.

"Hey," said a short paramedic, with old style ambulance parked on the runway. "You better come with me, you looks hurt."

"Thanks," said Sharona, "but we're good."

Maybe it was the helicopter hat, or maybe it was another one of those placards with the numbers on it, but Sharona found him to be somewhat suspicious.

The restaurant was Launchpad's favorite dive, "The Pilot's Crash Pad." The place specialized in hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, nachos and doritos, all served in generous portions. Parts of famous aircrafts, or rather the wreck of famous aircraft, were displayed on the wall. Launchpad was especially proud of the wheel of the "Uncrashable Hindentanic," which hung above their booth. He, of course, was the one who crashed the flaming airship, straight into an iceberg. He told Sharona, in case she hadn't heard.

Sharona was almost speechless. But when Launchpad wasn't looking, she rolled her eyes.

The conservation soon improved. Sharona was fascinated by Launchpad's history. His lifelong commitment to the Junior Woodchucks, and his status as all-time merit badge champion. His youth in his parent's air troupe, and his disgrace in a botched "Cattle rustle hustle." The first crash with Mr. McD and a flight through the center of the earth, his many other adventures and heroic exploits. As action-packed as a typical after-school _cartoon_, to Sharona's way of thinking.

Launchpad, in turn was interested to hear of Sharona's many misadventures with the brilliant but troubled Adrian Monk. Her trials raising Benji alone, and her conflicts with her sister and mother. It seemed to Launchpad, to be a life very grounded in _reality_.

His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of a fellow pilot. Tall, thin, dog-faced, with a couple days stubble, the beatnik pilot wore dark glasses and yet another one of those numbered placards across his uniform.

"Bebop, bebop, come dance with me until you drop," hummed the pilot, taking Sharona by surprise and taking her for a dance.

"Let go," ordered Sharona, pushing the pilot away.

The beatnik fell backward into Launchpad (who had been going to Sharona's rescue), Launchpad stumbled into Sharona, and the two of them fell into a dessert trolley.

The entire restaurant stopped to laugh at them.

"That's it," announced a dog-faced waiter.

He was tall, unshaven, missing a tooth, wearing suit and numbered placard.

"I'ms the bouncer, and you two are out of here."

"Wait, what's this?" asked another, taller dog-faced man wearing a black tuxedo, and one of those numbered notices. "I'm the manager, and I say they's stay. It was only an accident."

"We'd better go," apologized Sharona, throughly embarrassed and trying to get the black forest cake out of her hair.

"I'm never going to complain about Adrian humiliating me again," she muttered, as they left the restaurant. "At least for a couple of weeks."

"Uh, I better call a cab," said Launchpad, dejected.

"No needs," said a unknown, short dog-faced man, again with black mask around his eyes and also sporting a numbered placard across his checkered suit. "Big Time . . . er . . . Goodfellow Motors is gonna give yous a free car. As our super surprise giveaway contest. Here you are . . . the keys to a new corvette."

Mr. Goodfellow gave them a key, a bill of sale, and a year's insurance (according to the policy, Launchpad paid $30,000 a year for basic automobile insurance).

"What do you know?" Launchpad boasted, as Mr. Goodfellow left. "It isn't a plane, but it'll do."

Soon he and Sharona were comfortably on the road to Duckburg. But not for long.

In the bushes, where the highway hugged the coast of the bay, hid the lady, the gentleman, the ambulance driver, the pilot, the bouncer, the manager, and Mr. Goodfellow. A.K.A. Burger, Baggy, Baby Face, Bugle, Bouncer, Bank Job, and Big Time Beagle.

"I say we shoulds have put dynamite in the car," objected Bank Job.

"Yeah, bro," put in Bugle.

"You said it," added Baby Face.

"Listen yous, we want to catch 'em and hold 'em hostage," put in Big Time. "Yous messed up all our other chances, now you gotta listen to me.

"Yeah," said Burger and Bouncer.

"Duh, uh, yeah," added Baggy.

"O.K." Bank Job acquiesced. "Ma wants them caught, and if this works, they'll be caught. Though the dynamite would stun them better so they wouldn'ts run."

"We wants them alive," Big Time argued.

"When was the lasts time dynamite killed anyone? Not unless your holding it, or right next to it or something. A small stick won't hurt them."

"The goil's from San Francisco. It's too risky."

They were interrupted mid-argument by the hum of the sports car. Big Time pushed down the lever, and the dynamite he planted above the road caused a landslide.

The road slid out into Duckburg Bay, and the car crashed right into the water.

Sharona and Launchpad got out of the car alright, but . . . .

"Help!" yelled Launchpad. "I can't swim."

Sharona sighed and, grabbing his scarf, pulled Launchpad to shore.

"Thanks," he gasped.

"Hullo down there," said a voice through a megaphone.

It was the Duckburg Police. A cruiser had been attracted by the noise. The Beagle Boys, their chance ruined by the fuzz, had retreated to their hideout.

"We'll be up in a minute," said Launchpad, never one to let disaster let him down. "Maybe we can hitch a ride to the ice rink."

Sharona shuddered.

"No way," she said, her temper boiling over. "You can't do anything without crashing. No wonder Mr. McDuck fired you. I'd fire you. You're worse than useless, you . . . can't even swim.

"Lot's of people can't swim," commented Launchpad. "And, for your information, I'm gonna take lessons."

"You're a duck," scoffed Sharona. "What kind of duck can't swim?"

"That has nothing to do with it," Launchpad retorted. "Next thing your gonna do is call Duckworth color blind."

"You know, your right. Being a duck has nothing to do with it, because you're more of a turkey than a duck anyhow."

With that, Sharona climbed up the hill, and climbed in with the police. She left Launchpad on the beach, seeing red.

"You wouldn't know a real hero if it hit you on the head," he returned.


	12. The Case is Solved

**Monk Solves the Case**

Disher was unshaven and red eyed, Monk was the same as usual.

"You think the servants could of had a hand in it?" suggested Disher. "Ever heard of 'The Butler did it?"

"95 times out of hundred," Monk explained. "The butler doesn't do it."

"We've gone over El Capitan, again," Disher groaned. "The High Priest of Garbabble, Dangerous Dan of Dawson City, the entire Explorer's Club, The Beagle Babes, Sharky, the twin brother of the Count of Montedumas, Captain Pietro, Sharky, Filariid Brushmoor, Fardarad the Leprechaun . . ."

"He's a midget, not a leprechaun," Monk corrected.

"Loudmouth, the crooked reporter; Professor Bluebottle, Monsieur La Ribbit, the Beaver Boys, the Druids . . . ."

Disher ran out of breath.

"We've gone over everyone Mr. McDuck has ever identified as having ever fought him, and we have no leads," Disher finished. "Maybe we should go over the main suspects again?"

"The nephews told me that if you can't find any suspects, to look over the ones you already ruled out."

Sharona walked into the room.

"How'd your date go?" asked Disher.

"Don't ask," said Sharona, also retiring to a nearby chair. "You sure Launchpad wasn't duped into it? You know, the Beagle Boys once got him to rob several of Mr. McDuck's banks."

"We ruled him out," Disher said. "Before Duckworth, and right after Mrs. Beakley and Webby."

"You thought Mrs. Beakley did it?"

"We already went through everybody else," Monk explained. "Besides, _'Once you eliminate the impossible, no what's left, no matter how improbable, might be the truth_.'

"And we've already eliminated the impossible," Disher commented.

"You sure you didn't eliminate too much of the impossible," Sharona said. "After being with Launchpad, I'm not so sure anything's impossible anymore."

She told them the details of her 'date.'

"What about these people wearing black masks and placards," Disher commented.

"Were they all dog faced?" Monk asked.

"They sure didn't have beaks," Sharona told him.

"They must have . . ." started Monk.

There was a loud crash from somewhere outside

The three of them ran out of the room, out into the foyer, to meet a befuddled Duckworth, an excited Huey, Dewey, and Louie, and a furious Mr. McDuck (in nightshirt, cap and cane), at the front door.

"Burst me Bagpipes," fumed Mr. McDuck. "Right into me door."

It was Launchpad, who had crashed into the front doors with his helicopter, the aircraft remains lying partway in the lobby.

"Hey, Mr. McD," Launchpad said, jumping out of the wreck. "I saw the Beagle Boys."

He showed Mr. Monk a glove he had taken from the beatnik pilot. "Big House," was the name of the manufacturer.

"They sabotaged him," Monk put in, already righting some of the toppled furniture. "Wrecked his plane, pushed him into a dessert trolley, and blasted his car into Duckburg Bay. And tried to kidnap him."

"What would they want with him?" scoffed Mr. McDuck.

"He's right," said Sharona. "I was with him."

"You believe me?" asked Launchpad.

"Sure," said Sharona.

They shook hands.

"Mind cleaning up this wreck," complained Mr. McDuck, looking at the ruins of his front door. "This wood is genuine mahogany. It'll cost a fortune to replace."

"Hey, I can fix it," Launchpad offered.

"It'd take a magician to do that," said Mr. McDuck, using his cane to poke at the shards of wood.

Sharona looked at Monk. He had _the_ look in his eyes.

"Mr. McDuck," said Monk. "I know how your money was stolen."


	13. A Complicated Summation for the Case

**A Complicated Summation for the Crazy Case of the Missing Cash**

Almost the entire household was in the living room. Duckworth standing by the door, Mrs. Beakly with Webby on an armchair, Huey, Dewey and Louie on a chesterfield.

Sharona was sitting beside Monk, who was comfortably counting the panels on the wall. Disher was sitting in a chair nearby, contemplating a gold fish. The only one who wasn't there was . . . .

Mr. McDuck ran into the living room, lucky dime and case in his hands. It still gave off the faint aroma of chocolate.

Launchpad followed him into the room. He had been officially rehired.

"There's me dime," said Mr. McDuck. "Now why did you want me to show it to you, again?"

"This isn't your lucky dime," Monk told him.

"What!" put in McDuck.

"Pick it up."

Scrooge McDuck angrily took off the glass case, picked up the dime, and started.

"Awk!" he said, collapsing.

The nephews caught him.

"IT's chocolate," said Dewey.

"A replica made out of chocolate," sighed McDuck. "Then it must have been Magica Despell."

"The . . . illusionist . . . in conjunction with Flintheart Glomgold and the Beagle Boys," Monk explained.

"Witch," McDuck put in. "But how'd she do it?"

"Just listen, Mr. McDuck," boasted Sharona. "Adrian'll tell you the facts, in black and white."

"Why black and white," Webby asked. "Why not color?"

"Not on my payroll," Scrooge added. "Black and white is good enough.

"It's an expression," Sharona explained, rolling her eyes.

Monk began.

_In Black and White _

"Magica Despell wanted your number one time for years. She believes it would give her certain magical powers which would allow her to rule the world.

The problem was, that every time she tries to get her dime, you win it back. No doubt she was mulling over the problem, with that raven she believes to be her brother. She had to get the dime without you knowing. With you blaming someone else for the crime.

She disguised herself as Ma Beagle. She's a master of disguise, having once made the Beagle Boys resemble your nephews . . . .

"Through magic," put in Huey.

"She won them over to her. She could have merely hired them, but when she "Sent in the Clones," she swore to never hire the goons again. She was a proud magician, and could not hire them on a regular basis. And she had practical reasons for getting Ma Beagle out of the way.

Then the Beagles and Despell visited Flintheart Glomgold. Those digging machines. They won the use of them, and had them imported into Duckburg. Glomgold owns the Capetown paper that featured the story on the digging machines. It was raining when they took the pictures, that news story clearly was months old. It doesn't rain in Kimberley this time of year.

Magica Despell could easily use her powers of illusion to obscure the dirt produced by the machine, both inside and outside of the money bin. It's not much more of a feat than David Copperfield allegedly making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

To close the deal, she made sure that a duplicate of the dime was available. Why chocolate, I can't say. Maybe Burger gave her the idea . . . .

"Or she turned Burger's chocolate bar into a replica of the dime," put in Dewey.

Monk frowned.

"All suspicion had to go to the Beagles or Glomgold. And you couldn't possibly catch them red handed. More conveniently, if you looked up Ma Beagle, she'd be available as a convenient decoy to distract you from the real case. Right now, Magica Despell and the Beagle Boys are comfortably in Mount Vesuvius with your cash and your lucky dime. Anytime she chooses, she'll reveal her true identity, and do whatever ceremonies she thinks necessary to melt your dime into a so-called magic amulet."

_In Living Color_

"By all the heather in Scotland!" McDuck exclaimed. "We must go to Mount Vesuvius at once! Launchpad!"

"On it, boss."

Monk felt sick.

_At Mount Vesuvius_

Magica had a large room in the middle of an extinct crater. Temporarily, her headquarters were partially buried under piles of McDuck's money. Her things, her spells and potions, were huddled temporarily into a small quarter of the room. She had told them she had left the mountain for good, leaving Ma Beagle in charge of a perfect hideout.

Poe had spent most of his time hiding in a recess behind the wall.

"So Ma," asked Big Time. "How long do we have to hang out in that old witches' dive?"

"Until I tell you to leave," said Ma Beagle a.k.a. Magica Despell.

"Hey, big momma," put in Bugle. "Whens you gonna make some of your cakes. This lizard stew is the pits."

"Yeah," said Baby Face.

"It's not so bad," commented Burger.

"ENOUGH," said Magica, in her true voice and Russian accent.

In a puff of smoke she revealed her true identity.

"Uh, duh, it's Magica Despell," Baggy quavered.

In a short time, the Beagles were locked in an adjoining cell, and Magica and Poe were again predominant in her reign.

"We've gotta get out of here," yelled Bank Job.

"You aren't going anywhere," said Magica, surrounded by her cauldron, spells, and three cubic acres of cash piled up against the walls. "You bungling idiots couldn't even kidnap that nurse and the stupid pilot, after Glomgold nearly led that meddlesome detective right to me. But it doesn't matter now. You fools played right into my game, long enough. In a few hours, I shall melt Scrooge's lucky dime into my amulet and rule the world."

"Awk! And change me back into your brother," put in the raven.

"And all the power and wealth on earth shall be mine!" she gloated. "And Scrooge will be none the wiser, until he finds himself selling flowers from street corners. Adrian Monk or no Adrian Monk."

She gave a villainous laugh, and with dragon's breath, bat's wings, and eye of newt, began mixing the brew which would melt down the dime of Scrooge McDuck.


	14. Mr Monk, Mr McDuck, and Magica Despell

**Mr. Monk, Mr. McDuck, and Magica Despell**

_Somewhere, in a aircraft flown by Launchpad_

Monk was shaking, again firmly squashed between Sharona and Disher, who virtually had to drag him onto the plane. Again. At least it wasn't a biplane, but a much larger, much more comfortable air force surplus combination cargo plane and helicopter.

Scrooge McDuck was seated beside Launchpad. From specific shuffling noises in a crate behind him, Monk was 90 percent sure Huey, Dewey, and Louie were stowed away on flight. He was also 60 percent sure someone had stowed away in back.

But he wasn't leaving his comfortable seat for the duration of Launchpad's flight. For good reason. He had a parachute in hand, and, of course, was afraid he'd have to use it.

"There it is," scoffed Mr. McDuck, staring at the mountain shaped liked Magica Despell.

"I'll take her down, Mr. McD," Launchpad said.

At that moment, a flume of smoke escaped from the top of the crater, and obscured their view.

"I can't see," Launchpad said. "We're gonna crash."

Disher groaned. Sharona rolled her eyes. Monk turned white. And certain rustling noises were heard from the crate.

"What else is new?" sighed Mr. McDuck. "Boys, come out here."

"Uh, we're sorry Uncle Scrooge," offered Louie, as they climbed out.

"Never mind," fumed Mr. McDuck.

He strapped them into a seat.

"We're going down," said Launchpad.

"Again, what else is new?" asked Mr. McDuck, to noone in particular.

The plane plummeted, but at the last moment made a jarring, but relatively easy landing on the floor of Magica's crater.

"Where is she?" asked Disher, who, aside from Monk, and Mr. McDuck ("Me precious money!") was the first outside the plane.

"Help, Adrian!" exclaimed a very familiar (to Monk) voice.

It belonged to a woman, tied up against the wall in manacles.

"Adrian!" cried Trudy. "Darling! She's hid me here for years. You remember the story I've been working on - she wanted to know all about the world's billionaires. Who was the richest, who was the one she needed their first dime, quarter, or dollar from. Then she wanted me so she could find all everything I knew about you. So she could know enough to outsmart Mr. McDuck at last. She faked everything."

It looked like Trudy. It sounded like Trudy. Monk realized it even smelled like Trudy, the same _Black Magic _perfume.

"You can't be? Trudy?" he said.

Sharona and Disher stared at the woman whose portrait they knew so well.

"No she ain't," said a familiar voice.

"MA BEAGLE?" said McDuck.

"Hitched a ride with the pilot, out back. Not even Monk knew about me. It's her. I recognize that perfume anywhere."

"And she's playing a dirty trick on Mr. Monk," said Huey. "Too dirty."

The nephews bombarded Trudy with dirt, despite Monk's last moment attempt to stop them.

In a puff of smoke Trudy revealed herself to be Magica Despell.

"Good job boys," said Mr. McDuck. "You old witch, this is a new low, even for you."

Monk collapsed into Sharona's arms.

"Tell me about it, Scroogie darling," laughed Magica. "But you've arrived just in time, in a moment I will be making your dime into part of my amulet. Ever told your brats they shouldn't be hitting ladies."

"Some lady," scoffed Launchpad. "But she's right, every hero knows that. It even sais so right in the Junior Woodchuck guidebook."

"It said nothing about ladies hitting ladies," said Sharona, furious at Magica's trick.

"It's unladylike," objected Dewey.

"Tough," said Sharona.

With Ma Beagle close behind, she advanced on Magica Despell.

"I'm warning you . . . ." started Magica, making for her wand.

Sharona tripped her, Ma Beagle broke her wand, a revived Monk pushed her into the cauldron (without getting dirty), and Disher handcuffed her.

"Your under arrest," he announced.

Scrooge McDuck walked up, and grabbed his dime from a locket around her neck. He kissed it several times.

"Me precious dime," he said.

"You think you can get me," scowled Magica. "I'll be back for dime another time."

She turned herself into a vulture and flew away.

"She must be around her somewhere," Monk said feebly. "It's just an illusion."

"The perfume was just an illusion too?" asked Sharona.

"Jeepers," said Huey. "Was your wife a witch, Mr. Monk?"

"No," said Monk, quite firmly.

"No, it's a very popular brand," Mr. McDuck explained. "My French subsidiary has been making it ever since _The Nutty Professor _came out."

With that, he began swimming through his cash.

"All there?" asked Louie.

"All here," said McDuck. "Every blessed penny."

"Not for long, Scrooge," said Bank Job.

Ma Beagle had freed her boys from jail, and they were now advancing on their former allies. Guns drawn.

"Adrian!" yelled Sharona.

"No problemo," Launchpad said. "Mr. M told me she was stowed away in back when he got out of the plane. The police are coming now."

The roar of helicopters was heard in the air, and before five minutes had passed the Beagles were back in custody and Ma Beagle had escaped to parts unknown, certain to bake her peculiar desserts for her delinquent brood.

"The famous Beagle Boys," wryly commented none other than Captain Stottlemeyer, who had been contacted by the Duckburg police to accompany them on the unusual arrest (by reason of his contacts with Disher and Monk). "Not a homicide, but this has gotta be something for my records."

"Shut up, copper," muttered Big Time.

"Mr. McDuck," put in Sharona, while the beagles were being handcuffed.

"Yes, lassie?"

"The three and a half million is payable immediately, sir."

"Brigadoon!"


	15. The End of it All

**The End of it All**

Sharona was driving Disher and Monk back to San Francisco, along the same country highway. Disher's grandmother had paid Stottlemeyer to drive her Buick back. Somehow, she had heard about him letting it run away down killmotor hill.

As they progressed, the country became less animated, the colors more dull, and the cars less generic.

Monk looked satisfied as he watched a Chrysler 300 Touring Car pass them on the left.

"Three and a half million dollars," said Sharona smugly, as they reached an interstate. "Your going to have to give me a raise."

She sped up the onramp.

"How are we going to split it?" asked Disher.

"We?" scoffed Sharona. "I thought you were working for free."

Eventually, by the time they reached San Francisco, they had worked out one and half million for Sharona and Monk each, with the remaining half million going to Disher for his 'assistance.'

Monk hadn't gotten involved in the argument. On one hand, he had solved the case, he realized that. He had needed Sharona's help, he admitted that (although Disher he didn't really need). But what was more important, was that Stottlemeyer had told him he'd testify to the committee that he was ready again for active duty. In six months to a year. A week in Duckburg had prepared him for anything. It was like they said, _life was like a hurricane, here in Duckburg_.

Monk was undisturbed by thoughts of racecars, lasers, or airplanes as he brushed his teeth and went to bed.

_By Morning_

It had all been a dream, Monk realized, as he arranged his books. He hadn't yet done it.

"Seven inches, three eights of an inch," he muttered.

Yesterday, he had been at Sharona's. Benji had been watching _Gilligan's Island_ until Monk had irritated Sharona for hours with his complaints about the show's logical inconsistencies. She had made Benji change the program to a _Duck Tales_ marathon that was just starting, part of a satellite channel's salute to the animation of the 1980's.

There was no Duckburg, no Scrooge McDuck, no money bin, no number one dime.

Sharona walked into the room.

"Hi Sharona," Monk muttered.

"Yeah, Adrian," said Sharona, friendly and unperturbed. "Why are you measuring your books again?"

"My books," said Monk, now down to six inches, 7/8. "Benji borrowed _History's Greatest Unsolved Crimes_. He messed up my order. Now I have to . . . resort them. They have to be sorted by color and by descending size."

He had a distinct sense of Deja Vu.

"You know, most people who do these things, do it by subject."

"I know, I used to volunteer at the university library. But I prefer it this way."

"How come you've got to measure it?"

"It has to be exact."

Sharona rolled her eyes.

"Don't you've got way more important stuff to do," she remarked. "Today's payday."

Monk started. The conversation had gone off on a different track, than what he remembered.

"You know, I really deserve a raise," Sharona went on. "Especially with all the money you got from that big case you solved. Sometimes I swear your as cheap as Scrooge McDuck."

Monk stopped cold.

"Adrian?" she remarked. "ADRIAN?"

It took a half hour, and a call to Doctor Kroger, before Sharona could get Monk back to his old self.

The End


End file.
